From Beyond the Hate
by Eye of Passion
Summary: When Draco stumbles into Harry's life two months after Dumbledore's death, Harry isn't sure what to make of this strange new attraction between them... HPDM slash
1. Prologue: Beyond the Door

**From Beyond The Hate**

**Prologue: Beyond the Door**

**A/N: This is a sort of spin-off of _From Beyond The Veil_, and the two stories are interconnected. A Harry/Draco pairing of course, with much confusion and angst between them. Know that their thoughts get quite dirty, and later there will be sexual situations. You've been warned. Complain at your own risk. Enjoy!**

Harry wasn't entirely sure what was going on between Sirius and Remus, but he did know that he wanted it resolved, one way or another. He knew that he didn't like being caught in the crossfire of their long, conflicted gazes and their conversations full of double meanings. Ever since Sirius had returned from the grave, or Veil in this case, something had changed in the house, and the air between werewolf and human was charged with an electricity that Harry wasn't really sure he wanted to understand.

Because ever since he had come back to Grimmauld Place and found them in Remus's bed practically atop one another, he'd been questioning the nature of their relationship.

Harry sighed. Relationship. There was one fucked up word. Covered all sorts of evils. He frowned and looked back at the letter from Ginny that lay like a searing badge of guilt in his hands. Currently, his relationship with her was that of Gee-it's-nice-to-be-friends-again-because-if-we-were-together-I'd-put-you-in-constant-danger-but-I-can't-seem-to-talk-to-you-without-thinking-of-shagging-you-in-the-broom-closet-that-one-time. Things had been rather strained between them, though good-natured, and it was work maintaining the friendship and close relationship they'd had before he had kissed her and then shagged her.

The letter she had written was at least normal. She told him what was going on at the Burrow and how the rest of the Weasleys were doing (though he'd received more than one letter from Ron already telling him the same things), asked him about the Dursleys (he hadn't told anyone of his return to Grimmauld Place, though the owls seemed to know where to find him anyway), and told him other little things she thought he might find funny. No mention of the love they thought they had found with each other. Nothing about the lovely shag in the broom closet. And nothing about the possibility of Harry surviving a final showdown with Voldemort and them popping out a couple of normal, non-saviors-of-the-world children.

The strange thing was, Harry found himself rather relieved.

There was a sharp rapping on the front door, and Harry's eyes flicked up from the letter to the darkened foyer. In any other place, he wouldn't have found the knocking worrisome, but nobody at 12 Grimmauld Place knocked. Nobody in the Order knocked, because they knew they were welcome (and had a healthy fear of waking Mrs. Black, who had become even louder now that her son had returned from the dead). But nobody could know the location of the house either. Just because Dumbledore was dead didn't mean that the house was suddenly plottable.

Harry rose swiftly and strode to the door, drawing his wand as he went. The knocking came again, and he drew his breath in slowly, readying himself for attack.

Harry flung the door open as all his muscles tensed at the ready—

And stopped.

There, swaying slightly where he stood, was a dirty, bleeding Draco Malfoy.

The blond looked significantly the worse for wear, even worse than the last time Harry had seen him. That night when his eyes were wide with fear and determination, with guilt and hate and self-loathing, when he had slowly lowered his wand. He even looked worse than when Harry had found him crying in the bathroom and accidentally ripped his skin apart with Sectumsempra.

His blond hair was a tangled mess pushed away from his face, and congealed blood matted a patch above one temple. There were scratches along his face and shoulders where his shirt was torn; his feet were bare and bleeding.

But his eyes were what struck Harry to the core. They didn't spark, didn't crackle with hate the way they used to when they would look upon the Boy-Who-Lived. They were blank, dull, and hazy, wavering like his posture. Harry wasn't even sure Malfoy had noticed he was there.

Suddenly, the blond's balance failed him, and he stumbled forward into Harry's arms. Harry staggered as he caught the taller man, though as his fingers gripped Malfoy to keep him upright, he could feel every single rib in his torso.

The Slytherin pulled back for a moment, preventing himself from falling by putting his hands squarely on Harry's shoulders. He studied the green eyes and the dark hair, his face far too close for Harry's comfort.

Malfoy laughed. "Potter saves me. Should have fucking known."

With that, he passed out and fell into Harry's unwilling arms.

**A/N: I love reviews and the more reviews the faster the next chapter will come. I have a lot of this already plotted out, but suggestions are always welcome.**


	2. Beyond the Wreck

**Chapter 1: Beyond the Wreck**

**A/N: Here's my loverly first chapter. Read, enjoy the tension and the anger. It's lots of fun.**

Draco Malfoy was not having a good day.

Or month, now that he thought about it.

Two months, really.

And as his eyes fluttered slowly open to find a pair of uncomfortably vibrant green orbs on his face, he knew it wasn't going to get any better.

"Fuck," he muttered eloquently.

Potter's face remained closed, though Draco thought he saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips.

"Actually, I'm Harry. Or did you forget that?"

Perhaps he had hallucinated the smile. Draco didn't actually think the Boy Wonder's voice could get that cold; he sounded almost like Draco's father did when he was mad, and even more like the Dark—he shuddered. Merlin, he couldn't even think the man's title anymore. Though 'man' was probably too strong a word.

"I didn't forget," he whispered, thinking of far more than the name and the face, though the face had haunted him. The terror and the horror in those eyes as he had threatened to kill Dumbledore, and the fury and relief as his wand had lowered, and the renewed shock when Snape had appeared.

Potter nodded, and swallowed. "You look like shit."

The effort to be light-hearted was rather dismal, Draco thought, but it was better than remembering.

"I guess that finally puts us at the same level then, Potter."

The Gryffindor opened his mouth, and Draco was relieved to see a spark of anger in his eyes. That at least was better than the cold.

"Harry, what's going on down here?" Both boys turned their heads as a voice spoke from the top of the stairs. The werewolf man, Defense teacher—what the fuck was his name?—stood very still, his eyes on the two of them where Harry sat close to Draco, his hands carefully folded in his lap.

When Potter replied, his voice was surprisingly matter-of-fact. "Draco Malfoy is here, Remus."

The werewolf's eyes remained remarkably calm, though Draco could practically see the gears turning in his head and the suspicion snapping across his thoughts.

Remus's eyes ran over him. "He looks awful. Haven't you bothered to clean him up at all?"

Draco rolled his eyes. And now they were talking about him like he wasn't there.

The Boy-With-a-Stick-Up-His-Arse frowned. "He only showed up a few minutes ago, and he's been passed out for most of that time. And I didn't really want Draco Bloody Malfoy to wake up to me tending his injuries. He'd probably try to kill me. " The green eyes ran over Draco's broken body and a hint of pity came into them. "Not that he could do much right now."

"I'm still here," the Slytherin hissed angrily. "You will not talk about me like I'm not here. And you," he spat, whirling on Potter. "If I ever seen pity in your eyes again I will fucking kill you."

Potter's eyes snapped with fury, but he drew in a deep breath and Draco watched as the brilliant eyes dulled again.

Grey remained on green as Draco wondered where the annoying, perpetually loved boy had gone, and where this shell of a man had come from.

"I suggest you clean him up." Remus's voice broke the spell, and Draco managed an expression of disgust.

"Aren't you worried about contaminating your precious savior?" he asked, nearly succeeding in his old drawl. "And I don't want his filthy hands touching me. The man can't even use a comb, Merlin knows what the rest of his hygiene is like."

Draco saw the spark of anger again and thrilled in it. He wanted to see that rage again—so familiar, so safe in a way, so full of life. That expression reminded him that he was alive, that the Death Eaters hadn't managed to squash all his resistance. Not that they had wanted to kill him anyway, at least not at first. They just wanted him to know that he'd failed. Well, he knew that already, thanks.

He was suddenly very aware of a pair of quidditch-strengthened arms hauling him up from his position on the sofa. Potter was lifting him up, his expression again blank, though his brow was creased in a slight frown.

"What are you doing, Potter?" His voice was not as sharp as he had meant it to be. It was lower, softer, vulnerable.

"Remus is right." Draco glanced to the stairs, but the man had disappeared while he was lost in his oh-so-pleasant memories. "You need to be taken care of, cleaned, your wounds healed. So that's what I'm doing."

Draco had little energy left to protest, and let himself be half-carried, half-dragged up the stairs to a large bedroom, helping little though he did try, and then taken through a door opposite the bed to a spacious bathroom. He was stripped briskly and placed unresistingly in the deep tub and Harry muttered a charm to fill it, not bothering with a wand.

Draco blinked. "You can do wandless magic," he stated, for a moment forgetting that he was supposed to hate this wizard.

"Yes. Ever since I was little, though I didn't know what it was then."

Draco didn't bother to process this reply, for the water was hot and soothing, though it seared his open wounds and he had to grit his teeth from crying out. He shut his eyes tightly and breathed, trying to drive out the pain.

A warm, slippery hand made contact with his back and he froze, his eyes lifted to find green eyes that were slightly less cold than they had been.

"I'm going to wash you now. Your hands look a wreck so I don't think it's a good idea if you use them just yet. Hold still."

Draco's breath caught in his throat as those hands began moving over him. It had been so long since he'd had soap with which to wash himself, and longer since he'd been touched like this, if he'd ever been touched like this.

His eyes fluttered shut as Harry's strong hands moved to his chest and stomach. Unconsciously he arched into those hands, into the slippery soap and the callouses from years on a broom, into the firm pressure and the gliding strokes. It wasn't that the touch was particularly sexual, nor should Draco's body have been responding like it was. But his breathing quickened, his hands clenched into fists, and he firmly decided that it was his current weakened state that made the blood pool in his groin.

Draco didn't want to open his eyes for fear of what he would see in the other man's. He could have died right at that moment and been perfectly happy. In fact, dying in general didn't seem like the worst thought. He couldn't think of anything he really needed to live for.

---------------

Harry's entire body was on fire. He could of course attribute that to the stifling heat in the room from the hot water, or the fact that he was exerting himself washing Malfoy in the humidity of the room, but the truth was that he hadn't felt such a barrage of sensations in—he couldn't really remember.

Pain in his knees from too long on the tile floor. A tingling in his hands as they smoothed over the hard lines of Malfoy's body. Heat in his cheeks that he didn't think was entirely due to the temperature in the room. And he couldn't take his eyes off the naked man that he had been sure up until a half hour ago he hated.

But when he had seen Malfoy there at the door, so broken and lost, just like he himself was, barely standing, he'd remembered him lowering his wand, how human he had looked then and when he was in tears in the bathroom. How vulnerable.

Now, he looked equally vulnerable, but—Harry swallowed—in a completely different way.

With his body arched toward Harry's talented hands, his limbs and chest glistening with droplets of water, his hair wet and falling across part of his face, and his eyes closed tightly in an expression near pain but more like pleasure, and his lips parted slightly as his lungs took in soft gasps of air, he stirred something in Harry that before the Gryffindor had been unaware he could feel.

Malfoy slowly opened his eyes, as if noticing that Harry's hands had stilled just below his navel. The grey was clouded, but with pleasure this time instead of the hazy shroud of pain, and his half-closed eyes held an intensity that made Harry's heart beat faster.

"Well, Potter?" Malfoy's drawl was nearly perfect, but there was a slight hesitance, as if he were less than sure of himself.

Suddenly it was much too close in here, and the sound of Malfoy speaking in that low, husky voice caused a painful tightening in Harry's pants. He pulled his hands back and stood abruptly, saying, "You can rinse the rest of yourself and not drown, right, Malfoy? I'll return in a little while so we can heal you." He turned to go, but not before seeing a flash of —was that disappointment?— in Malfoy's eyes.

The strange thing was, he rather felt the same.

**A/N: You know you want to review. All of that sexual tension, how could you resist? I love reviews. They make my day. So please, make my day. :)**


	3. Beyond the Wounds

**Chapter 2: Beyond the Wounds**

**A/N: Here is more of our lovely heroes. More tension, more confusion, more anger. Enjoy!**

Harry didn't sleep well.

After he had collected himself sufficiently—which involved carefully not touching his aching cock and determinedly thinking of what little he remembered from History of Magic and NOT of Malfoy's mouth and what it might feel like on his own—he had managed to heal the majority of the wounds of the blond without any further... confusions.

In fact, for the rest of his time with Malfoy he had been perfectly fine. He had easily remembered and performed the healing spells that Hermione had instructed him in, he had bandaged the ribs while they were magically and naturally healing, he had actually managed to touch Malfoy without his heart speeding to an alarming rate. There was still the tingling in his hands, but that must have been the magic.

But he didn't sleep well. He tossed and turned and pulled his blankets up and then kicked them back away again in frustration. His dreams were haunted by pale skin and taut muscles, the lean lines of a man's body and the softer curves of his lips.

The thing was, Harry didn't think of men that way. Not in the way that had him waking with an erection that would not leave no matter how many Defense Against the Dark Arts spells he recited in his head. And he did not think of men in the way that had him leaning against the shower wall to support himself as his fingers curled around the sensitive length and he bit his lip to keep from moaning.

This morning he had hoped to come down to the kitchen early—painfully early to be honest, for Remus kept insane hours—and get himself a strong cup of tea before he was forced to deal with Malfoy. Instead, the Slytherin was already there, dressed in only his bandages and a pair of pants that was significantly too short, staring at the plate of food before him in disgust.

As Harry came in, his grey eyes lifted and he summoned a sneer. "Potter, I would at some point like clothes that actually fit. Yours are rather... small in places." His eyes drifted past Harry's bare chest down past the waist band of his pants, and the green-eyed man flushed at the implication. "Not only that, you cannot expect me to eat this rubbish you call food."

Harry forced a smile. "Malfoy, I'll let you borrow some of Remus's clothes since they'll probably be longer—you're too tall for mine. You will eat the food because you'd be dead if you were any skinnier. And," he added with a decidedly hostile expression, "don't doubt the fit of my pants in places, Malfoy, or I'll be forced to prove myself to you, and I'm sure neither of us want that."

There was a sudden silence. Was it just him, or did Malfoy's eyes dilate the slightest bit? And did he just swallow in what was certainly a nervous gesture? Were his cheeks maybe the tiniest bit flushed?

Harry turned to the cabinets to avoid looking at Malfoy any longer, which seemed to be something he was doing quite a bit of now.

He sat slowly at the table with a bowl of cereal and milk, glancing at Malfoy again and noting that the blond still hadn't touched his food.

Harry began eating more quickly than he normally did, hoping that he could get the hell out of this remarkably uncomfortable silence. Malfoy didn't say anything, but Harry could feel the grey eyes studying him carefully, running over him in a disturbingly thorough perusal.

"What is it, Malfoy?" he asked finally, setting down his spoon and looking at the other man directly.

"We've hated each other for a long time, haven't we?"

It was such an unexpected question that Harry was caught off guard. Harry would have understood another complaint, or an insult, or anything else, but this matter-of-fact question was nothing like the Malfoy he knew.

If he really knew Malfoy at all.

"Er—" he started. "Yeah. I guess we have."

"You know, I don't think I genuinely hated you until you made the Quidditch team. Then I hated you for getting something I wanted more than anything, and for refusing my friendship, of course." He paused and folded his arms behind his head. "But you decided earlier than that, didn't you?"

Harry was momentarily distracted by Malfoy's alabaster skin, and the remnants of his quidditch muscles stretched tight across his chest and torso. The darker pink of the nipples stood out against his skin in the chill of the morning.

"Er, I suppose I did."

"When?"

Harry blinked. He hadn't really expected an interrogation.

But he thought about the question. It had been so long now since he had begun hating Malfoy that he couldn't really remember why he had started in the first place.

"It was probably on the train, when you insulted Ron. He was my first real friend. Not just at Hogwarts, but ever. So I hated you. Though I thought you were a bit of a prat in Madame Malkin's as well."

Malfoy nodded, and for a moment said nothing. "You were the first person I ever asked to be my friend," he said quietly. "But I suppose we should be glad that you refused me, then. We should have ended up hating each other anyway... what with you being such a prick."

"I'm the prick?!" Harry cried indignantly. "I'm not the one who insulted your friends every time I saw you. You went out of your way to be rotten to me."

Malfoy nodded. "I liked it. Seeing you mad, that you couldn't control some aspect of that perfect little life of yours, that I was something not even your precious Muggle-lover Dumbledore could fix—"

"Don't you ever fucking talk about him like that!" Harry shouted, leaping to his feet. "You're the reason it happened! You're the reason he's dead!"

Malfoy's expression immediately closed, and his relaxed body tensed suddenly. "You blame me."

"Of course I blame you! You let them in! You were the reason anybody knew we were up there! I could have saved him, but you—"

"That's right, Potter, blame it on me! How like you to pin it on somebody else. It couldn't possibly be that Dumbledore fucked up, no, it's me! What choice do you think I had? They were going to kill me and my family! The Dark Lord doesn't accept failure, Potter! I could have killed him, but I didn't. I couldn't do it. I failed, and not even Snape could save me." He finished so quietly it was nearly a whisper.

Harry's wand was out and his anger had nearly reached the bursting point. He hadn't been furious like this since that night, when he had chased Snape, hurling curses at him as he ran. Snape...

"He did it to save you?"

Malfoy nodded. "He made an Unbreakable Vow to my mother."

Harry sat down. "What did they do to you, Malfoy?"

The blond man shook his head and slumped, suddenly looking defeated.

"You'll have to tell me, sometime."

"No, I won't."

"I need to know. There might be damage that I won't find without knowing."

"Let it go, Potter."

Harry took a deep breath to quell the anger that was once again rising within him. It had felt good, for those few moments, to let the fury take over, but he couldn't afford to lose himself to it.

"You know," Malfoy said softly, and his eyes had something else in them this time, "I like you better angry than cold."

Harry scoffed. "You don't like me at all."

The other man shrugged. "I could. We don't exactly know each other, Potter. Not that I want to become bosom buddies—you might contaminate me with those awful Mudblood germs—but I don't have to hate you."

Malfoy stood and picked up his plate, moving to the other side of the table and far too close to Harry for his peace of mind. The blond leaned down close to him, his lips next to Harry's ear. Against his will, Harry found his heart beating faster. "I don't want to hate you." Harry could practically feel him smirk. "And I think I could like not hating you a lot."

---------------

Draco had no idea what had possessed him to speak to Harry—no, _Potter_—like that. Fuck. He was an idiot, telling him that his had been been the first friendship he'd ever asked for, that he liked seeing him mad, that he wanted to like him.

Why the fuck did he feel like telling Potter everything when those green eyes looked in his direction?

And _Merlin._ Concentrating had been nearly impossible with all that skin on display. Golden, that was the only color to describe Potter's skin, and so much of it with the broad shoulders laden with muscles from years of flying. And he hadn't quite been able to keep his eyes from lingering on the brunette's firm ass, nor his gaze from straying to the line of dark hair that created a tantalizing path from his navel to disappear under the edge of his pants.

Fuck, he needed sex. Now that the most pressing of his needs had been taken care of, he was having trouble ignoring his other... desires. Not that he was connecting Potter with sex. For one thing, he liked birds, not blokes. And most definitely not Potter.

An image of that golden body over him, under him, surrounding him, buried in him, came unbidden to his mind. His cock sprang eagerly to attention.

Fuck. He would just avoid Potter. That would work, right? He would talk to him as little as possible, be around him only when he had to be, and this weird focus he had on fucking the Golden Boy into the mattress would go away.

Merlin, he needed a wank.

---------------

Draco managed to avoid Potter for a grand total of two days. He mostly kept to his room under the pretense that he needed to rest, and managed to use Kreacher for all his other needs. Of course, he was going a little crazy staying in the room all the time, but he couldn't really go anywhere else. He'd stumbled across the library on the second day, during an exploration on which he had carefully not passed Potter's room. Unfortunately, the bloody werewolf had already been there, lifting his eyebrows a fraction of an inch in question and making Draco feel like a fucking intruder. So he'd gone back to his room. And done jumping jacks. And looked out the window onto the remarkably spacious backyard. Until he saw Potter flying around without his shirt. Didn't the wanker own any clothes?

It was on the second day after dinner that Harry finally came to inflict his Golden Boy tendencies on the helpless Slytherin.

The knock was as much anticipated as it was dreaded, and Draco's heart nearly stopped beating when he heard it.

He scowled anyway in defiance. "What?" he snapped.

A chuckle came from the other side of the door. "Get the fuck over yourself, Malfoy. I'm coming in. You'd better be decent." This was followed by the door opening and a tousled and flushed Potter strode into the room.

"Potter, when exactly did I say you could come into my room?" Draco's tone was anything but friendly.

The Gryffindor merely raised a brow and grinned. "Come off it, I own this house."

"Why in hell are you so sodding cheerful this morning?"

Potter's grin lit up his entire face, made the infernal green eyes even brighter. "I had a great fly earlier."

Draco's brows drew together in a dangerous frown. He was well aware of the fact that Potter had flown and had a wonderful time this morning—after watching for only a few minutes he'd needed a fucking cold shower. Stupid fucking Gryffindor.

His eyes turned back to Potter and he was surprised to find the other boy's gaze appraising and annoyed.

They said nothing for a few moments.

"Thanks for inviting me, Potter," Draco spat, wanting to make Potter as uncomfortable as he felt.

He saw the brunette's jaw tighten in anger and smirked. Part of him delighted in the fact that he could get to the other man. It was a powerful thing, to be able to affect the emotions of another and he'd always liked power. Though right now he'd rather affect Potter in an entirely different way.

"I have to check your bandages."

Draco gritted his teeth as Potter touched him to keep from gasping. It wasn't like he'd never been touched before. But those hands were so soft and rough at the same time, carefully taking the bandages off his ribs and prodding his bruises with calloused fingers.

Draco watched Potter as he worked. The brunette's cheeks were markedly flushed, and his lower lip was caught between his teeth in a way that made the Slytherin want to bite it.

It had been sometime since he had felt so much. Other than pain, that is. He had felt plenty of pain so far, at the hands of the Dark Lord and his legion of basic-black-sporting minions. But this, none of this was straightforward in his head. It didn't make sense, the combination of _things_ that were going through his skin and his blood and his mind. There was so much here, he knew, but he didn't know what it was, and he was even less sure what he could possibly do with it.

After awhile that soft baritone spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm done." Potter stood and backed away from him, though their eyes remained on each other as more space grew between them.

An awkward silence stretched before them as they stood; they were now both looking at anything but each other.

Finally Draco rolled his eyes. "Is there something else you wanted Potter?" The Slytherin would never forget how the Harry's cheeks grew distinctly more flushed at the question, and his lower lip once again found its way between his teeth.

Potter straightened, and looked Draco square in the eye, almost a challenge. "I think you should have dinner with Sirius and Remus and me downstairs today, instead of avoiding me."

Instead of protesting the obvious indignity of having to dine with the suddenly-not-dead arrogant arsehole and the bloody pathetic werewolf, Draco found himself saying, "I'm not avoiding you."

A single dark brow raised in disbelief. "You're doing a remarkable impression of it, then."

For the first time he could remember, Draco found himself spluttering like a fool, or worse, like that bloody Weasel whenever he was around the stupid Mudblood. "I—but—well—"

Potter raised a hand in what the blond thought was a particularly arrogant expression. "Save it, Malfoy. Just come down at seven, and try to be civil. I know it's hard for you, what with the bloody stick up your arse, but try."

Draco glowered as the brunette shut the door. "You want civil, Potter? I'll give you fucking civil."

**A/N: What mischief is Draco planning? How tense will things get between our two men before they have to relieve their—cough—tensions? And how many times must I beg for more REVIEWS?**


	4. Beyond the Agression

**Chapter 3: Beyond the Aggression**

**A/N: Here it is, the chapter you've all been waiting for, or the chapter I like to hope you've all been waiting for. Time for awkward and tense dinners and some very intense glances across the table. Oh, how I love those.**

Harry glanced nervously from Remus to Sirius, hoping against hope that they would loosen up after a glass or two of wine. If they were still like this... well then he might just have to do himself in with one of the nice knives he had set out earlier that evening.

Right now, the two men were not exactly making him comfortable. Remus was currently looking at anything but Sirius, his lashes lowered over his intelligent hazel eyes, and his lips drawn into a tight, grim line. And Sirius, well, he was staring at Remus with an intensity that quite frankly was rather worrying Harry. What the fuck had happened between the two of them?

Not only were the two men scaring the shit out of him, but—and this was the straw that breaks the camel's back—Malfoy hadn't shown up yet. He was already fifteen minutes later than Harry had requested, but the Gryffindor refused to go up the stairs to get him. If the wanker was going to live in his fucking house, then he was going to have to abide by his fucking rules.

Suddenly Sirius glanced at Harry, startling the younger man. "Where the fuck is the blond brat?"

Harry sighed. "You know, calling him that isn't exactly going to make this dinner easy. I know he isn't the easiest to get along with, and in fact I'll agree with you that he's a prick, but I need you to tolerate him, just for a little while. Please."

Remus nodded, still not looking at anybody. Sirius simply made a short, non-committal grunt, which Harry was going to optimistically assume was a yes.

A shadow fell across the kitchen floor and Harry glanced up, opening his mouth to say something scathing to his unwanted house guest... and stopped.

For several moments, in fact, he could think of nothing to say at all. Draco stood illuminated by the light from the hall, his slim frame leaning casually against the door frame. He wore a thin grey turtleneck of Remus's, and a dark pair of trousers, probably one of the only nice pairs that Remus owned. The snug material of the shirt left little to the imagination of his lithe and firm torso, and the black pants seemed to hug his long legs and fell tantalizingly low on his hips. His platinum hair fell into his eyes slightly, and he reached up with one elegant hand to brush it away from his face.

For several moments, Harry forgot to breathe. Now, Malfoy was standing there, just _looking_ at him, in an expression that was distinctly predatory, but that Harry found... disturbingly exciting.

Malfoy pushed slowly off the door frame and sauntered to the table, taking his seat with unrivaled grace. He looked up at Harry, pinning him with grey eyes that were less cold than they had been. "I apologize for being later than requested."

Harry only nodded, not trusting his throat to work properly. This was becoming fucking ridiculous. For fuck's sake, he'd seen Malfoy naked, had washed him with his two hands, and now the sight of him in actual clothes had him harder than the fucking table leg. His fascination with the blond's looks didn't seem to be getting better. In fact, he noted, realizing that the room was in fact much hotter than he had previously thought, particularly when Draco was looking him up and down like that, this strange attraction only seemed to be getting worse.

Remus spoke, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the table. "I'm glad you could join us, Draco."

Sirius let out a snort, and Harry glared at him.

Malfoy smiled, the model of civility. "It's a pleasure. I admittedly haven't had much of a chance to speak with anybody but Po—Harry."

Harry sat stunned for a few moments, realizing that the Slytherin had actually said his name. And without a great deal of revulsion.

Once again, Remus was forced to dispel the uncomfortable quiet, saying, "Please, have a seat. We're dining rather simply tonight, just a roast, some potatoes and vegetables."

Malfoy sat slowly across from Harry at the table, gracefully easing himself into the chair. His face was, if not exactly friendly and open, then less hostile than it usually appeared. Or, Harry thought with more disappointment than he thought he should, perhaps that hostility only applied to him.

"How are you this evening, Ma—Draco?" Harry asked, wondering why his heart seemed to stop when the grey eyes lifted to his.

"Absolutely delightful," the blond replied. A gentler than usual smirk graced his face. "And yourself?"

Harry hesitated for a moment. He wasn't fine, and he hadn't been fine for a long time, but for some reason, he felt closer to fine than he had been in months, maybe even years.

He smiled anyway. "Just fine." It took more effort than he felt it should to tear his eyes away from Malfoy's, but he managed it, and turned his forced smile to Remus. "How has the research been going, Remus?"

The werewolf's smile was tense, and he still refused to look at Sirius. "It's... progressing. I've found a few more leads, and Tonks and Kingsley are looking into them. If there's strong evidence that they're... genuine, then we'll let you know."

Harry nodded. "Thank you. I just don't want anybody else to, you know, suffer the effects."

Sirius glanced up sharply and spoke. "Suffer the effects of a poisonous potion or the betrayal of one of his own students?"

Remus sighed. "Don't, Sirius."

Harry glanced over at Malfoy. The blond's customary smirk had returned to his face, but there was a danger behind the ease of his pose. Harry briefly wondered where the coward he'd known had gone, where the arrogant but frightened boy had gone, and where this threatening man had come from.

"He's entitled to his opinion of me. As I am entitled to my opinion of him."

Oh fuck. Oh fuck and bloody fuck. It had been going so well for an entire seven minutes. And now...

"And what is your opinion of me, little ferret boy?"

Harry winced. He'd forgotten that he'd told Sirius that story. This could not possibly end well.

"I think that you're nothing more than a pathetic excuse for living. You don't know why you're here, you don't know what to do with yourself now you've come back, and you don't appear to even be a proper lap-dog for your werewolf lover over there."

Harry stood suddenly. "Malfoy, that's enough!"

"Oh no, please, let's keep going." Sirius was standing now, too, his roast and potatoes forgotten. "Please, keep going. Because I can totally respect the opinion of the little Death-Eater-that-could. Why the fuck are you even here? Go back to your charming group of friends—"

"Bitter that I actually managed to do something useful for my side, Black? Simply because the most useful thing you managed to do for the fucking Light was die? I imagine that must be rather disappointing."

Harry lunged forward and grabbed Sirius as he made to leap across the table at Malfoy. Remus rose from his seat as well, his hand deceptively relaxed about his wand.

"No, Sirius!" Harry shouted. "No! Leave it alone! You provoked him, he provoked you, we're all bloody even now! Just sit the fuck down and eat dinner!"

"I am not eating dinner with this—" Sirius broke off, as if searching for a word that could possibly describe the scum he felt Malfoy qualified as. "I'm not eating dinner with the boy who bends over for the Dark Lord."

Malfoy froze at these words, and his eyes were no longer angry. They were perfectly calm, but Harry thought he saw flashes of memory cross those grey pools as the blond leveled his gaze at Sirius. "And I'm not eating dinner with a dead man who bends over for a half-breed."

Harry stared after Malfoy as the Slytherin swept from the room. What the fuck was that about? Harry was quite certain that he hadn't really understood what had gone on in those last few insults, though now that he saw Remus's flushed cheeks and Sirius's furious expression he was pretty sure he had more of an idea than he really wanted to.

He sighed. Not even one fucking dinner. What was Malfoy doing to his life?

Angrily stalked from the room, determined to find Malfoy and—he wasn't quite sure yet. Make him apologize? Shout at him? Beat him to a bloody pulp? He didn't know. In fact, he was quite certain that when it came to Malfoy he didn't know anything anymore.

---------------

Draco halted momentarily at the top of the stairs, wishing he had something other than the objects in his own room to destroy. He could, of course, go to Potter's room and ruin every inch of that, but he was quite sure that he did not want to be anywhere near the place Potter slept and showered and—did whatever else he did.

True, he could also destroy things in the other rooms, but as not quite all of the rooms were curse-free, and only a handful of the many rooms were inhabitable, he did not really want to take chances with his life and extremities because of a tantrum.

Fucking Black. Draco shook with fury he hadn't known in a long time, adrenaline coursing through his body. He had wanted to punch something, to hit something, to take out everything he'd felt for the last year on somebody who probably didn't really deserve it. Though in Draco's mind the simple fact that Black was alive was probably reason enough.

That accusation had been... it had been something so horrible that Draco had never even considered it before. He had thought, at one time, that such a thing might be one of his punishments for failing, as the pain without any preparation was really quite extreme, but fortunately or unfortunately for him, it hadn't been the Dark Lord to carry out that particular part of his punishment. He wasn't sure the Dark Lord had even been aware of that little... additional atonement for his crimes.

A memory assaulted him, a laughing face and eyes that were eager and full of hatred, and hands pulling at him and the sting of a slap across his face, and the burning agony of a knife against his skin. He opened his eyes and one of his hands stole into his shirt. He had been careful to cover the scars when he had escaped.

Shakily, he leaned his head against the wall. It was strange that the one coherent thing he had managed to do after escaping, other than come here with knowledge that Snape had give him, was to cover the evidence of his punishment.

"Malfoy!" A harsh voice invaded his thoughts. Speaking of punishments...

He opened his eyes. "What the fuck do you want?"

Potter's green eyes narrowed in anger. "Do you really have to ask that question? What the fuck was that about at dinner?"

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow, trying hard to look indifferent. "I'm fairly certain that I was being insulted, Potter, and then retaliating." He drew back from his position against the wall and folded his arms across his chest, carefully drawing himself up to his full height, which, though the difference was not significant, was definitely greater than Potter's.

Dark hair shivered slightly as the brunette shook his head. "You couldn't manage to be decent for one fucking meal. That's all I asked of you! It shouldn't have come as a surprise to you that he provoked you, after what you've done! So why didn't you just—"

"Why didn't I just what, Potter?" Draco demanded indignantly. "Let him insult me some more, let him make accusations about me that aren't and have never been true? Let him belittle me?"

When Potter spoke next, his voice was quiet. "I thought that you would have the maturity and balls to let it go."

Draco let out a soft laugh, one that he had learned from his father. "Let it go. You'll find, Potter, that letting things go is not something I'm good at, nor are you as far as I can tell. I realize that you expected a week in your presence to make a wonderful person out of my dark ways, but I feel I should inform you, _Harry_, that I haven't changed. I'm not going to sit there and be insulted," his voice was suddenly nearly a whisper, "I'm not going to lie down for anything ever again."

He noticed that Potter's eyes had widened again when he called him Harry, just as they had during the rather brief conversation at dinner, and he took a step closer. "Well, Potter?" As he spoke those words, he had a flashback to his first night in this place, when he had opened his eyes in hazy pleasure at the feeling of those hands washing him, and asked the same question.

Now, Potter simply studied him for a moment, his face carefully blank. "You know," he said finally, "I think I liked it better when he hated each other."

Draco blinked. What the fuck? Potter turned away and began walking down the long hall to his room. What the _fuck_? What kind of fucking answer was that? An irrational anger filled him, for all he had been through, for the thorn that Potter had been in his side since he was small, for the indignity of having to be cared for by the fucking Boy-Who-For-Some-Reason-He-Could-Not-Hate.

He strode quickly after the other man and grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around. Potter looked curiously at him, and Draco smirked. "Potter," he nodded, and with a swift movement of his arm, punched the Gryffindor in the face.

Harry stumbled back, clutching his cheek where Draco's knuckles had collided. The blond was pleased to see the shock turn to fury and the green eyes light up with it, burn with it. With a sound that closely resembled a snarl, Potter had launched himself at the taller man, tackling him to the ground with surprising strength. Draco felt a fist smash into his face just above his lip, and a splitting pain as another fist connected with his jawbone.

Draco deftly pushed the other boy over, straddling his hips so that he couldn't get away. With a small smirk of satisfaction, slightly marred by the blood dripping from his mouth, he sent another fist into the Golden Boy's face. Potter struck back, and in the flurry of fists and legs and the continual vying for control by pushing the other onto his back, Draco could feel some of his anger being satisfied, finally being taken out on somebody instead of being locked up inside and building and boiling. This was it, he was taking it out on his lifelong enemy, the one who had caused it all.

Suddenly he was on his back, and the smaller man was straddling his own hips, gripping his thighs with strong legs. Draco's arms were pinned above his head by one hand, and the other held Potter's wand to his throat.

"Enough." The single word came out as a gasp, and Draco noticed that Potter's nose was rather bloody, and his cheek and jaw were swollen in more than one place, and there was a slight tear in his shirt where a hint of golden skin peeked through.

There was silence for several moments, and Draco noticed with more than a little humiliation that certain parts of him were rather enjoying Potter's closeness. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to calm down, but the other man shifted slightly on top of him and instead his breath caught in his throat. Green eyes bore into his own, and a strange glint that he hadn't seen before appeared in Harry's eyes as he shifted again. Draco noticed with a certain amount of shock that he was not the only on enjoying their current position.

With one swift movement, Draco pushed the other man off him and got to his feet. Potter was still on the floor, looking strangely more beautiful than Draco had ever seen him, even with his face bloody and panting on the ground.

"I—" he began, but closed his mouth as he honestly didn't know what to say.

Potter smiled at him, a cross between a genuine smile and a smirk. "You punch pretty well, Malfoy, for a woman." He held up a hand as Draco opened his mouth furiously and continued, "And I have to wonder..." he trailed off and his expression suddenly became serious again. "Did you like it better when we hated each other?"

Draco opened and closed his mouth, still staring down at Potter. Then, with a small sound of frustration, he turned in the opposite direction and strode to his room.

Once inside, he slammed the door, wondering why all his aggression had suddenly returned.

One thing he knew, whatever was going on between Potter and himself, was quickly getting out of hand.

**A/N: Ah, the continuing tension. I'll probably have the next one up in about a week. And do you know what I'd love? Some more REVIEWS!!!**


	5. Beyond the Past

**Chapter 4: Beyond the Past**

**A/N: Here's some more, delving into the past a bit, also going into some more personal things. No action yet, but never fear, it should come in the next chapter or so. Also, you will recognize some parts of the passages from HBP, and I'm going to say right now that I don't own those portions, that they simply were used in the forming of my story, so please don't point it out as I am already well aware.**

Draco's dreams were full of pain.

That was really the only thing he dreamt of anymore, but for some reason, the memories were more poignant than usual, and the vestiges of the torture inflicted on his mind and body seemed sharper, the scars deeper.

_He remembered the first Cruciatus curse with a kind of wistfulness, though he had known even then that far worse was to come, that a Crucio for the magnitude of his failure was nowhere near enough. Then had come more curses, things far worse and far less merciful than the Sectumsempra Potter had accidentally performed on him only months ago._

_Those nights, those days, those interminable hours during which he was tortured and kept in that place, in that house, they erased the memory of all other pains from his mind. Nothing physical compared with the ache in his bones and his body and the blood and waste and tears that dried on his body. Nothing compared with the invasion of his body and the abuse of his from until he was bleeding from practically every orifice. _

_Sometimes they turned to Muggle devices of torture, rather than those of the wand. Knives were particularly favored, delicate and sharp to trace pretty patterns on the smooth skin of his torso and back and arms and neck. He renewed the glamour covering them each morning._

_He did not usually relive those parts. More often than not, he dreamed of the part that came after, the running. They had become lax in the security around him, after so many days of torturing him and the weakness of his body; it seemed that his escape was impossible, so why should they bother? _

_If Draco had been in his right mind, he never would have tried to run. But his mind had been torn, though not broken, by the time spent in the dark room with dark people and dark instruments of pain. And so he had stood and run, his legs taking him as far as he could before Apparating to an alley several streets over from Grimmauld Place. Snape had told him of its location, saying that in an emergency of the kind they faced that he could manage to override the Fidelius charm and help Draco to safety._

_But after that Draco tried not to think. The torture he could accept and he could get past, his scars would heal and the torments they forced him to endure would eventually fade from his consciousness as well. But since coming to Grimmauld Place... he had no idea what was going on anymore. _

_His dreaming mind turned away from thoughts of a certain green-eyed Gryffindor and back to the running. Always the running. The thundering of his heart, the fire in his legs as he kept running, the burning in every single part of his body and the wounds that ripped and tore as he ran, blood dripping down him so that he slipped in it and nearly fell, but all the time he kept running, kept going, until finally he got past the wards to Apparate. _So tired, so tired, just wanna sleep, just wanna die...

Draco brutally forced himself out of sleep and into consciousness, his breathing slightly quicker than normal, and a light sheen of sweat covering his shaking body.

He closed his eyes, visualizing the moment Potter had opened the door and he had collapsed into his arms. The Gryffindor hadn't gotten to see Draco as a bloody mess; Draco had learned to cast a wandless glamour years ago, as vain as he was, though it was the only bit of wandless magic he could do. A broken stone fountain with water that swirled in rather green patterns had cleaned off most of the blood.

A sound caught his attention, and he lifted his head at the noise. It was a soft sound, like a cry or a moan. Draco eased himself out of bed and padded into the hallway, careful to make no noise on the floor. Another gasp met his ears, and he wondered briefly if whoever it was suffered from a nightmare... or just a particularly pleasant dream.

He continued down the corridor, and as a soft cry met his ears, he stopped.

And cursed Merlin or God or whatever the fuck it was that just had to guide him right back to Harry Fucking Potter.

Rolling his eyes he cracked open the door, the reasonable part of his mind begging him to turn back, and that other part of his mind—the part that always seemed to take over when it came to Harry—told him to shut the door and see what was wrong.

Potter lay in his bed, but he was not still. His body twisted, writhed, the more pleasurable of his gasps intermingled with pained groans. Sweat gathered on his forehead, his upper lip, and a tiny drop escaped the dip of his throat to slide down his bare chest. Draco wanted to lick it off.

Instead he sat by the edge of the bed, wondering if he should wake the other man, when he heard at the end of a particularly erotic sound:

"Malfoy."

---------------

Harry's dreams were full of guilt.

_"You go on," Malfoy told Pansy, and Harry's heart suddenly beat faster in his chest. "I just want to check something."_

_Pansy left. Now Harry and Malfoy were alone in the compartment. People were filing past, descending onto the dark platform. Harry was filled with a strange anticipation, even as Malfoy moved over to the compartment door and let down the blinds, so that people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. Malfoy bent down over his trunk and opened it again._

_Harry remembered this, from early in his sixth year, and he had no wish to relive the embarrassment. He wondered why his mind had brought it up in the first place, as he hadn't thought of the occasion in months. But so deep in sleep, he had little control over his own thoughts, and so even against his will he peered down over the edge of the luggage rack. _

_The familiar questions raced through his mind. What had Malfoy wanted to hide from Pansy? Was he about to see the mysterious broken object that was so important to mend?_

_"_Petrificus Totalus!_" The shout came, as he had known it would, yet he could not help feeling surprised as he was instantly frozen. As though in slow motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell, though this time it seemed almost as if he floated down, to gently lie on his back. The curse didn't seem to be working right, either. Instead of being completely paralyzed, it was as if he were immersed in warm molasses, unable to move except for very slowly, like heavy weights were attached to all his limbs._

_"I thought so," Malfoy said jubilantly. "I heard Goyle's trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back..."_

_His eyes lingered for a moment upon Harry's trainers, and slowly slid up the rest of his body to his face, so that Harry's entire being was flushed by the time the cold grey eyes returned to his._

_"You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here..."_

_Harry wished fervently that he could close his eyes. He knew how this part ended—his nose broken and blood all over his face, and the humiliation of Tonks finding him. But instead of the elegantly shod foot crashing down on his face, Malfoy knelt beside him and threw one of his legs over Harry's hips so that he was straddling the immobile boy._

_"While I've got you here..." he said again, and Harry gasped as he felt two strong hands sliding up his torso, the palms and fingers digging into his muscles and creating a delicious friction in their wake. Thumbs grazed tauntingly over his nipples through his shirt as they passed, sliding up along his neck with an almost feather-light touch to tangle themselves in his dark hair._

_"Malfoy," he wanted to whisper, tried to say. "Draco."_

_His lips parted against his will as Malfoy's face came closer to his own and the blond rolled his hips forward in a way that had Harry wishing he could moan, wishing he could press closer, wishing he could do _something, _and he didn't think that something would exactly be pushing Malfoy off of him._

_Malfoy's hot breath wafted across his ear, and he let out a strangled gasp as the Slytherin sank his teeth into the sensitive flesh of Harry's ear. "You can, if you want to."_

What? _Harry so desperately wanted to ask. _What can I do?

_Malfoy's smirk suddenly transformed, his face splitting into a sinister smile that Harry's nightmares were all too familiar with. "Scream."_

_And suddenly he was falling, or not falling, but cold dark air was rushing past his face and beating at his body, and this must be what dying he feels like, because what else could it be?_

_He was back in the graveyard, tied to the tomb, he cried out as the knife pierced his flesh and that shrill cackle echoed in the air. Cedric suddenly appeared before him, looking dazed as he stepped away from the Tri-Wizard cup. But that didn't make sense. Cedric was already dead, long before Harry's arm was cut open._

_"Then we shall correct that, shall we?" And this time it was the real Voldemort, of flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy, and bone of the father, standing in black-robed glory and mockery blazing at Harry from the red slits of his eyes._

_Cedric died again as a jet of green light split the darkness._

_Sirius fell through the veil again, that expression of surprise etched permanently into his features. He fell though again, and again, and again, and each time Harry tried to save him, tried to change something, but nothing changed._

_His dreams were rushing past him now, taking him past trivial things and fears and revisiting all the moments that he never wanted to think of again. That moment that Dumbledore was hit with a jet of green light and propelled off the Tower, when Harry couldn't move or breathe or do anything but stand there and pray to anything and everything that it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true, that please, God, Merlin, _please_, don't let it be true._

_And suddenly he was seeing Malfoy again, this time with his back to the door, the blond's hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-blond head bowed._

_"No one can help me," said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. "I can't do it... I can't... It won't work... and unless I do it soon... he says he'll kill me..."_

_That was the point Harry realized the blond was crying, tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin. The next part seemed to fast forward, and suddenly Harry watched himself shouting "SECTUMSEMPRA!" and he knew that the next moment there would be blood everywhere, so much blood, and Harry was screaming, screaming "No! No! I didn't know! I didn't mean to!"_

_Dream Harry's head jerked as his eyes flew to his own chest, and now it was his own body that had been ripped open, and his own life's blood that flowed out of him in deep, dark rivulets of crimson._

_"No!" he shouted again. "I didn't mean to hurt him! He was an accident! I'm sorry! I'm sorry about all of them. I'm sorry about all the people I've killed. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." _

"Potter."

_And there was Malfoy's voice, so vivid in his dream, standing before him with a bleeding chest also, gaping wounds where once-perfect alabaster skin had been. Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry."_

"Potter." _His name repeated from his long-time rival's lips, but it sounded distinctly annoyed and perhaps the tiniest bit concerned now._

_The Malfoy before the mirror came forward slowly until they were nearly touching, and calmly wrapped his arms around Harry, pressing their bleeding chests together, letting the blood mingle and mix._

"Harry," the voice finally said. "Nobody's going to care if you're sorry if you never wake up. Snap out of it, you ponce."

With a start, Harry opened his eyes, realizing that it wasn't his dream at all, but that Draco Malfoy was sitting on his bed, his face masked with careful disdain.

"What?" he said dazedly, trying to recover himself from the fog of sleep.

Malfoy sneered. "And again your incredible intelligence is displayed." There was a pause in which Harry tried to be angry, but failed. He was still thinking about his dreams. As if reading his mind, the blond suddenly asked, "What were you dreaming about?"

Harry shrugged, using the action to disguise his still-shaking limbs. "A lot of things," he replied evasively.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "And what were some of these things?"

There was several moment's silence, and Harry bit his lip. What should he say? The truth. The truth was somewhat more complicated than he wanted to think about. "Some of—some of what happened between us last year, but it was different. You, er, turned into Lord Voldemort and told me I could scream if I wanted to."

"I hope you don't compare me with Vo—the Dark Lord. You know I'm much more attractive."

"Whatever, Malfoy."

The blond cocked his head to the side. "What else?"

"Cedric dying, Sirius dying, Dumbledore dying, splitting your chest open, though for some reason I was bleeding, too."

Malfoy's nose wrinkled in distaste. "That sounds remarkably... pleasant. So was that why you were moaning my name?" He added the last as a casual question, so simply that Harry almost missed what it was entirely.

But a moment later he blinked, and his eyes widened, his thoughts flashing back to the dream and Malfoy's closeness to him on the train.

He nodded. "Yeah, that was it."

The Slytherin still had a slight smirk on his face, his sly expression managing to worry Harry and simultaneously want to kiss the other man. He shook his head. Fuck, this was getting ridiculous.

"What are you going to do?" Harry asked abruptly, sitting up so that his back was to the headboard.

"What do you mean?" The grey eyes were filled with confusion as he shifted farther onto the bed and into a more comfortable position.

"I mean after all of this, if I—if we win. What will you do?"

Malfoy was very quiet for a minute. When he spoke, it was with a studied nonchalance. "I never really thought about it. Was going to live off my fortune, basically, but now I'm not so sure. But it's not like I'll survive."

"You're going to survive," Harry said, rather fiercely. "You're going to live."

He was suddenly confronted by an intense grey stare, and the flecks of blue mixed in with the grey were mesmerizing, so that he didn't think he could look away if he tried.

"Then I supposed I'd like to do something with Potions. I am quite good at it, you know, Snape wasn't just nice to me because I was a Slytherin. So I reckon that's it."

Harry nodded, his eyes still locked with Malfoy's. Why was it so hard to look away? Why did it seem so important that he not look away?

"And what does the great Harry Potter want to do with the rest of his life?" The sound of Malfoy's voice managed to break the spell that his eyes had cast, and Harry looked away, down at the blankets twisted in his hands.

"You mean if I survive?"

Malfoy snorted. "If you survive? Of course you're going to survive. You're Harry Bloody Potter, how could you possibly not?"

Harry's smile when it returned to his face was strained. "I guess I want to be a Healer."

A single blonde brow raised. "A Healer? What happened to Auror, defeater of all evil?"

Harry shrugged. "I think I've had enough people die around me, thanks. And I think I've fought enough evil to last several lifetimes, and I haven't even finished off the big bad yet. I don't even know if I will. It's kind of a lot to ask from a seventeen-year-old, don't you think?"

Malfoy simply nodded, his expression distant. "It is a lot to ask," he said after a moment, his voice low.

Several minutes of silence passed. Harry shifted on the bed, his thigh brushed the other man's. Grey eyes flicked up to his, thought they betrayed nothing other than indifference at the subtle contact. Malfoy's slim thigh pressed back against his own.

Harry moistened suddenly dry lips with his tongue, trying not to think about the look in Malfoy's eyes as the man watched his actions.

"We should get some sleep," he said suddenly, feeling some of his more sensitive portions responding to the gleam in Malfoy's eyes and the warmth of his skin through the thin pajamas.

Malfoy nodded and carefully eased himself from the bed, using Harry's thigh as leverage to help himself up. The hand that braced itself on the Gryffindor's thigh was rather higher than was strictly necessary, and Harry could feel each individual finger pressed against him.

"Good night, Potter."

"Good night, Malfoy."

As the Slytherin was about to disappear into the hallway, Harry called out to him. "Malfoy... um, er—"

"Yes, oh eloquent one?"

The note in Malfoy's voice was not scathing, but rather a warm teasing that went straight to Harry's groin. He swallowed. "Let's have that Quidditch game tomorrow, then?"

Something resembling a smile crossed the blond's face for a moment, and a challenging expression rose to his face. "May the best man win."

**A/N: So, guess how many reviews I want? An infinite number! That is, in fact, correct! Also, it will make me feel like writing this faster, though no matter what the next chapter will be posted eventually.**


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